THE market’s tents were a bright burst of color in the center of the city. Hrathen walked among them, noting the unsold wares and empty streets with dissatisfaction. Many of the merchants were from the East, and they had spent a great deal of money shipping their cargoes to Arelon for the spring market. If they failed to sell their goods, the losses would be a financial blow from which they might never recover.
Most of the merchants, displaying dark Fjordell colorings, bowed their heads respectfully at his passing. Hrathen had been away so long—first in Duladel, then in Arelon—that he had almost forgotten what it was like to be treated with proper deference. Even as they bowed their heads, Hrathen could see something in these merchants’ eyes. An edginess. They had planned for this market for months, their wares and passage purchased long before King Iadon’s death. Even with the upheaval, they had no choice but to try and sell what they could.
Hrathen’s cloak billowed behind him as he toured the market, his armor clinking comfortably with each step. He displayed a confidence he didn’t feel, trying to give the merchants some measure of security. Things were not well, not at all. His hurried call via seon to Wyrn had come too late; Telrii’s message had already arrived. Fortunately, Wyrn had displayed only slight anger at Telrii’s presumptuousness.
Time was short. Wyrn had indicated that he had little patience for fools, and he would never name a foreigner to the title of gyorn. Yet Hrathen’s subsequent meetings with Telrii had not gone well. Though he seemed to be a bit more reasonable than he had been the day he’d tossed Hrathen out, the king still resisted all suggestions of monetary compensation. His lethargy to convert gave mixed signs to the rest of Arelon.
The empty market was a manifestation of the Arelene nobility’s confused state. Suddenly they weren’t certain if it was better to be a Derethi sympathizer or not—so they simply hid. Balls and parties slowed, and men hesitated to visit the markets, instead waiting to see what their monarch would do. Everything hung on Telrii’s decision.
It will come, Hrathen, he told himself. You still have a month left. You have time to persuade, cajole, and threaten. Telrii will come to understand the foolishness of his request, and he will convert.
Yet despite self-assurances, Hrathen felt as if he were at a precipice. He played a dangerous game of balance. The Arelene nobility weren’t really his, not yet. Most of them were still more concerned about appearances than substance. If he delivered Arelon to Wyrn, he would deliver a batch of halfhearted converts at best. He hoped it would be enough.
Hrathen paused as he saw a flutter of movement near a tent at his side. The tent was a large blue structure with extravagant embroidery and large winglike pavilions to the sides. The breeze brought hints of spice and smoke: an incense merchant.
Hrathen frowned. He was certain he had seen the distinctive bloodred of a Derethi robe as someone ducked inside the tent. The arteths were supposed to be in solitary meditation at the moment, not idly shopping. Determined to discover which priest had disobeyed his command, Hrathen strode across the path and entered the tent.
It was dark inside, the thick canvas walls blocking out sunlight. A lantern burned at one side of the tent, but the large structure was so piled with boxes, barrels, and bins that Hrathen could see only shadows. He stood for a moment, eyes adjusting. There didn’t seem to be anyone inside the tent, not even a merchant.
He stepped forward, moving through waves of scents both pungent and enticing. Sweetsands, soaps, and oils all perfumed the air, and the mixture of their many odors left the mind confused. Near the back of the tent, he found the solitary lantern sitting beside a box of ashes, the remnants of burned incense. Hrathen pulled off his gauntlet, then reached to rub the soft powder between his fingers.
“The ashes are like the wreckage of your power, are they not, Hrathen?” a voice asked.
Hrathen spun, startled by the sound. A shadowed figure stood in the tent behind him, a familiar form in Derethi robes.
“What are you doing here?” Hrathen asked, turning from Dilaf and brushing off his hand, then replacing his gauntlet.
Dilaf didn’t respond. He stood in the darkness, his unseen face unnerving in its stare.
“Dilaf?” Hrathen repeated, turning. “I asked you a question.”
“You have failed here, Hrathen,” Dilaf whispered. “The fool Telrii is playing with you. You, a gyorn of Shu-Dereth. Men do not make demands of the Fjordell Empire, Hrathen. They should not.”
Hrathen felt his face redden. “What know you of such things?” he snapped. “Leave me be, Arteth.”
Dilaf didn’t move. “You were close, I admit, but your foolishness cost you the victory.”
“Bah!” Hrathen said, brushing past the small man in the darkness, walking toward the exit. “My battle is far from over—I still have time left.”
“Do you?” Dilaf asked. Out of the corner of his eye, Hrathen saw Dilaf approach the ashes, running his fingers through them. “It has all slipped away, hasn’t it, Hrathen? My victory is so sweet in the face of your failure.”
Hrathen paused, then laughed, looking back at Dilaf. “Victory? What victory have you achieved? What…?”
Dilaf smiled. In the wan light of the lantern, his face pocked with shadow, he smiled. The expression, filled with the passion, the ambition, and the zeal that Hrathen had noted on that first day so long ago, was so disturbing that Hrathen’s question died on his lips. In the flickering light, the arteth seemed not a man at all, but a Svrakiss, sent to torment Hrathen.
Dilaf dropped his handful of ashes, then walked past Hrathen, throwing open the tent flap and striding out into the light.
“Dilaf?” Hrathen asked in a voice far too soft for the arteth to hear. “What victory?”